


Teacher, Teacher

by BooksOverPeople



Series: Tumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Dirty Talk, French sexiness, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Older Sherlock, Smut, Student/Teacher, Student/Teacher AU, Tumblr Prompt, i should shut up and get back to writing, im so excited, this is gonna be hot, young john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooksOverPeople/pseuds/BooksOverPeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is looking for a French course and he finds The Bee Institute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221B-Ladybug](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=221B-Ladybug).



> For the lovely 221B-Ladybug!
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, love. I've been out of town and away from wifi :c
> 
> This will be a multiple chapter ficlet. I'm uploading the next chapter either today or tomorrow so don't worry, you'll get the full fic hopefully by the end of the week!
> 
> And now, enjoy!

Finding a proper French course in London, John found, was a long, tedious and unrewarding job.

As John walked out of Remie’s Teaching School, he cursed a blue streak. This was the fifth time he’d thought he’d found a course only to discover how wrong he’d been.

 

He’d had a trial class with a teacher whose class turned out to be for Spaniards who wanted to learn French.

He’d had a run in with a teacher who would not stop picking on him because he’d told John that he reminded him of his ex.

And now, his most recent failed attempt, had been with “Remie” who was one of those Arabs who didn’t know her _P_ ’s from her _B_ ’s. Poor John had had to suffer through an hour long trial of _“bomme”_ , _“barabilluie”_ and freaking _“boulet”_.

 

Exasperated, John ran a hand through his blonde hair. He had one last place on his list. He could either go home and sit in his room being sorry for himself or he could pick up his pace and make it to the next trial session he knew was scheduled.

Steeling himself, he stood straight and started walking.

 

~~~~ 

 

John really was quite lucky he’d decided to pursue learning a language early in his summer holiday since most institutes were opening their beginner classes for the year. If he could just find a damned place to learn the damned language first…

 

John pushed The Bee Institute’s door open and stepped through. The building was not very large but the inside was spacious and tastefully decorated.

The walls were a warm golden shade, the precise shade of dripping honey; the chairs were a sturdy, shiny oak while the receptionist’s desk was a dark mahogany that surprisingly complimented the oak; the few paintings on the wall were of gorgeous green woods that seemed to stretch on endlessly, oaks, majestic cedars, wispy willows, dark boughs heavy with leaves. But the largest painting’s main purpose seemed to be to emphasize the golden beehives hanging from 3 of the trees, their bright colour stark against the dark background behind them.

 

 _Well_ , John thought. _At least it looks better than most of the other places I’ve tried so far_.

 

He walked up to the desk and politely cleared his throat. The receptionist looked up at him with clear blue eyes.

 

“Hello, excuse me. I’m here for the trial session for the beginner’s class.”

 

She smiled, the smile of someone who knew something you didn’t. The smile of someone who pitied your life choices.

 

She pointed to a hallway behind them. “Down the hall and turn left. It’s the red door after the toilets.”

 

“Thank you,” John replied, smiling.

 

“I doubt you’ll be thanking me after your class,” she answered and only then did John recognize the emotion behind her smile; Pity.


	2. French Is Sexier With a Baritone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hiiii!
> 
> Yes, I started school and yes, that's why i'm late with this update. It was half written but I didn't have time to finish it. Bloody O' Levels.
> 
> Anyway! I hope LadyBug-221B doesn't mind that I've made her prompt into a fic but I liked it so much that I decided to run with it. 
> 
> I study French in school and am fluent enough but that doesn't mean I can't make mistakes especially since i still need a beta so please do notify me if I messed up.  
> Here's an update to tide you over! Hope you enjoy :3
> 
> ~Zal

He was sitting in his chair, his notebook in front of him, and his pencil in his hand as he tapped the rubber end against the tabletop.

 

The class was supposed to start in a 20 seconds and John was worried. The receptionist’s words were replaying in his head, a constant stream of **_I doubt you’ll be thanking me after your class_**

 

**_I doubt-_ **

****

**_I doubt you’ll be thanking me-_ **

****

**_-thanking me_ **

****

**_-after your class_ **

****

**_I doubt you’ll be thanking me after your class._ **

 

“Good afternoon, class.”  

 

A deep baritone jolted him out of his depressing thoughts and John raised his head to lay his eyes on his teacher for the first time.

 

And his first thought had been, _“Fuck, my teacher is a looker.”_

His second; _“Posh bastard.”_

He was tall, well over six feet. Skinny but not in an unpleasant way. His well-tailored suit hugged his body as if it had been made for him- and honestly, John thought, it probably was. His button-down was a pale grey that was pulled tightly across what looked like a muscular chest. His shoes were black, shiny dress shoes.

However, it wasn’t his attire that had John trembling, though he did look amazingly delectable.

His face had a sort of alien beauty. All sharp angles that looked as delicate and sturdy as glass. Strong jaw, gorgeous heart-shaped lips, high cheekbones that only served to further emphasize the indescribable colour of his eyes and were only further highlighted by his rampant dark curls that made him look the slightest bit younger than he obviously was. His eyes were the most riveting mixture of blue, green, grey and stunning silver. There was such… _intelligence_ in them; a permanent “i-know-every-secret-you’ve-ever-kept” look in them.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” the man continued. He raised his hand to stop a student from setting off the chain of introductions as was customary. “Don't. I don’t care what your names are since most of you will be gone after today’s class.” The red lips quirked up and John found himself following the movement with rapt attention.

 

_Sherlock._

 

An exotic name for an exotic man.

 

John mentally shook his head, _No, John. You do not find this man attractive. He just has an alien beauty to him. You are merely observing. Not attraction. Of course not._

 

John miserably pushed away thoughts of pushing Mr. Holmes against his desk and kissing those lovely lips out of his head and focused on the lesson.

 

“Alright, we shall begin,” said Mr. Holmes clapping his hands together.

 

~

 

It was going well.

****

Mr. Holmes certainly knew his stuff. He explained the basics of the language which basically consisted of the alphabet and their pronunciation as well as the three main verbs; _Ê_ _tre, Avoir_ and _Aller._ He was concise and to the point but his explanations, while usually punctuated with jibes at the general populace’s lesser intelligence, were unparalleled. He deflected smartarse comments easily and redirected the class back to the topic at hand with remarkable skill.

It was going great, actually. Quite astoundingly.

 

It certainly helped that Mr. Holmes’ pronunciation was impeccable. And that his voice curled around John’s spine like warm chocolate. It really was a bit of an overload for John’s system as he watched the man explain a concept to a student 2 seats in front of him. He was bent almost in double to be at level with the student he was speaking to. His words were deliberate and precise, every word he spoke in French perfectly said. His hands moved as he spoke and the line of his back was graceful as he finally straightened and ruffled his hair back into place.

 

 _He looks like he’s just had a really good shag,_ thought John as he regarded the artful disarray of curls.

 

He looked back to his notebook, reviewing his notes to make sure he didn’t have any doubts.

 

As he reached verb _Aller_ , he frowned. He was pretty sure it was _Je vais_ , not _Je vas_ and yet there it was, written both in his neat(messy) handwriting in his notebook and in Mr. Holmes’ elegant script on the board;  _Je **vas.**_

He slowly raised his hand, his eyes still on the offending word.

 

“Yes?”

 

John jumped. He hadn’t realized that Mr. Holmes had already crossed the room to him. Damn those long legs. He cleared his throat as the feline eyes bore into him curiously.

 

“Uh, I was just wondering, that is, isn’t it _Je vais_? I know it says _vas_ on the board but I just remember you pronouncing it as _vay_ so…”

 

John trailed off. Mr. Holmes lips were pursed.

 

“I see. Yes, I’ve forgotten the ‘i’. My apologies. Well-spotted, Mr. Watson, though I am surprised that you managed to wrench your eyes away from my face long enough to look at your notes” he drawled, his mouth quirking up as he walked to the board to rectify his mistake.

 

John’s face felt like it was on fire. His breath caught in his throat and he fought the gasp that had threatened to escape him. He paid little mind to the snickers around him and the badly-concealed “queer” from behind him.

 

Mr. Holmes, however, was a different story.

 

“ ** _What_** did you say?” he snarled, striding towards the green-eyed boy who’d spoken.

 

He was three seats to John’s left, his varsity jacket hanging on the back of his chair, black hair gelled in spikes, earring glinting in his left ear.

 

“Quoi? Qu’est que tu as dit, Monsieur Jones?”

 

His eyes were flashing, his mouth set in a snarl, teeth bared.

 

“I called him queer, sir,” replied the boy, grinning as if he’d accomplished a great feat. “’Cuz he was staring at you, sir. Wouldn’t want some fag staring at ya, innit?”

 

“Well, I’m sure you’d know, wouldn’t you? Slept with your best friend again three nights ago. Drunk sex, though so it doesn’t count, does it? Is that what you’re telling yourself? Because we both know it counts. There are small splashes of semen on your left jacket sleeve. Different splash patterns, you were wanking both of you off; an incoming splash from a larger distance and a smaller splash from a smaller distance. Dry and crusty so at least 3 days old. Yet, you’re still wearing it, you haven’t bothered to hide the evidence. Sentiment.

You’re so deep in the closet that there’s practically dust coming out of your mouth when you speak. However, that does not mean you get to mouth off at others to make yourself feel more secure in your so-called heterosexuality. Apologize, **_now_**!” hissed Holmes.

 

The boy has paled considerably as Mr. Holmes had been speaking, his hands clenched, eyes wide, mouth open.

John wasn’t in a much better state though. His own mouth had slackened and he couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. All he could think about was that Mr. Holmes was quite possibly the fittest and brightest man he’d ever met.

 

Jones turned to John and cleared his throat, “Sorry, Watson.”

 

John nodded.

 

“Class dismissed,” growled Holmes as he stormed out of the room.

 

 _Well,_ thought John, **_that_** _was intense._


	3. Unprofessionalism At Its Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of any French will be available below.
> 
> I'm a horrible person, I know.  
> I know I said the fic would be over within the week but I lied and I'm sorry. Procrastination is a disease and it started with me. *sigh*
> 
> Anyway, I finally finished my pre-mocks and got to writing. this was supposed to be up yesterday but I deleted it accidentally and had to start over today. I was very sad.  
> I wanted to wrap up the fic in this chapter but I couldn't so I decided to wrap it up in the next chapter. Enjoy! 
> 
> My tumblr: cumberbatata.tumblr.com

John was not at all surprised when he’d walked into his next French class and found that the number of students had dwindled from 17 to a mere 8. Ever since Monsieur Holmes (as they’d taken to calling him after John had greeted him with a cheerful “Bonjour, Mister Holmes!” and the man had replied with a scathing “That’s _Monsieur_ to you, Watson. You may have a limited vocabulary but the least you could do is _use it._ ”) had picked apart Jones’ sexual history by the stains on his jacket alone, John had decided to take his words as gospel.

 

Monsieur says almost half the class will be gone by the second class?

He's right.

 

Monsieur says the French for ‘apple’ is _pomme_?

He’s damn right.

 

Monsieur says the moon is flat?

He’s most likely right.

 

Monsieur says that bananas are blue?

Heck yes.

 

In conclusion, John is infatuated with his teacher and there’s really nothing you could tell him to get him to back off.

 

***************

 

Cue John’s third class and cue Jones stumbling into class one evening, his hand intertwined with another boy’s and introducing him to Monsieur Holmes as the infamous best friend – well, boyfriend now. That was the first time John had ever seen Monsieur laugh and he had never thought him more beautiful.

 

***************

 

By John’s fourth class, he could have a reasonably simple conversation in smooth French.

 

Monsieur Holmes wanted to test each student’s skill in both pronunciation and the ability to form sensible sentences. Which was how John found himself in a large, cold classroom alone with the object of his desires, a deep baritone rolling delicious consonants and vowels in an inviting pink mouth and lobbing the words formed at John like pesky Cupid arrows.

 

“Alright, Watson. The quiz is simple. All you must do is pretend that I am a stranger you have just met on the street and you need directions to a certain place. You will start and lead the conversation. _Tu comprends?_ ” Monsieur Holmes said, raising an eyebrow as if daring John to say that he didn’t understand.

 

 _“Oui, Monsieur, je comprends_ , _”_ answered John, swallowing against the ball of nerves lodged in his throat.

 

_“Très bien. Nous allons commencer!”_

 

John cleared his throat and obediently began the conversation;

 

 _“Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous?”_ asked John, smiling politely.

 

 _“Bonjour. Je vais bien. Je peux vous aider?”_ Monsieur Holmes asked in return, a smile as fake as John’s plastered on his face.

 

 _“Oui, où-est la bibliotheque, s'il vous plaît?”_ John said slowly, focused on rounding his vowels and joining his consonants and vowels properly.

 

 _“Elle est près du cinema. Devant la fontaine,”_ replied Monsieur Holmes disinterestedly.

 

 _“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur,”_ John finished, grateful that the oral was finally over. This was not the type of oral he enjoyed to be bloody honest.

 

He snorted inwardly and looked up to find his gorgeous teacher peering intently at him, long finger steepled together in front of his plush mouth.

 

“You intrigue me, John Watson,” he murmured, the words so low in pitch they settled deep in John’s bones.

 

John huffed a shocked laugh, “Sorry, Monsieur?”

 

Monsieur Holmes let out an exasperated huff of his own before saying, “I said, Watson, if you were _listening_ , that you intrigue me. I know almost everything about you yet I know nothing. It’s very distracting.”

 

“Me, distracting? Sorry, have you taken a look at yourself?” John sputtered as he realized what he’d just said.

 

A slow smile spread over Monsieur Holmes’ face, “And there it is; the elephant in the room. Tell me, John, do you realize how obvious your attraction to me is?”

 

John’s mouth had fallen open and he struggled to get his mouth and brain to cooperate so he could reply but before a word escaped his mouth, Monsieur Holmes had filled the blanks in for him.

 

“No, you truly don’t know,” he chuckled darkly, eyes alight with mischievousness. “Consider this, John. Since you walked in and realized you’d be taking your oral alone with me, your pupils have dilated, you’ve begun breathing a little harder, you’ve had to tear your eyes away from my lips several times in this conversation and you’re blushing. I know you want to pursue medicine come fall, so tell me, John,” he leaned forward, leaving a few inches of space between them. “Are those not classic signs of attraction?”

 

John’s eyes were locked on the iridescent blue-grey ones mere inches from his own, his lips parted in a vain attempt to gulp down enough oxygen to stabilise his breathing.

 

“You said you knew everything about me?” he managed to choke out, trying helplessly to divert the conversation.

 

Monsieur Holmes laughed and leaned back in his chair, “Sweeping it under the rug, are we? Marvelous, let’s see how long you hold out then.”

 

John averted his gaze.

 

Monsieur chuckled again.

 

“Your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but your bag is old, well-worn. You didn’t buy the phone, it’s a gift. There are scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting in front of me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”  


“The engraving,” mutters John.

  
“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left  _him_ , he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left  _her_. He gave the phone to  _you_ : that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re living with your Uncle – don’t look at me like that, I do read the profiles my students fill in, you know - instead of going to your brother: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you  _don’t_  like his drinking.”

 

“That,” said John, wide-eyed. “was _amazing._ ”

 

“Really?” Monsieur Holmes’ eyebrows had risen up.

 

“God, yes. You saw all that from my phone?”

 

“Well, yes."

 

_“Brilliant.”_

 

"Did I get anything wrong?”

 

 _"_ Harry is short for Harriet. She's my elder sister."

 

Monsieur looked slightly disappointed, "Ah...balance of probability."

 

"But it was honestly astounding, Monsieur Holmes," said John trying to placate him.

 

“And your French oral wasn’t half-bad,” he replied, smiling softly. He stood, picking up his coat from the coat rack next to his desk.

 

As he turned to leave he called out, “You may call me Sherlock when no one else is around. _À bientôt, John._ ”

 

It’s took John three tries to leave The Bee Institute that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pomme: apple  
> Tu comprends?: You understand?  
> Oui, Monsieur, je comprends. : Yes, Sir, I understand.  
> Très bien. Nous allons commencer! : Very good. Let's start!/We will start!  
> Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous? : Good morning, Sir! How are you?  
> Bonjour. Je vais bien. Je peux vous aider? : Good morning. I am good. Can I help you?  
> Oui, où-est la bibliotheque, s'il vous plaît? : Yes, where is the library, please?  
> Elle est près du cinema. Devant la fontaine. : It is close to the cinema. In front of the fountain.  
> Merci beaucoup, Monsieur. : Thank you very much, Sir.  
> À bientôt, John. : See you, John.
> 
> Sherlock's deduction are quite obviously from the show with slight alterations to fit the context. Credit to: arianedevere's transcript (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html)
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Thank you to cice for correcting my atrocious French!
> 
>  
> 
> ~Zal


	4. Ain't Nothing Like Sexual Frustration To Fuel Bad Decision-Making

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took too long, i know. forgive me. i meant to post it yesterday but the power was out in my village and the wifi gone with it.  
> enjoyyyy!
> 
> ~Zal

John lasted 6 weeks, 3 days and a handful of hours. He really hadn’t been expecting to last that long and the only reason he had, was because he just couldn’t seem to find a moment in which to corner Sherlock alone and not for lack of trying.

He’d been so wired for 6 fucking weeks and Sherlock – that bastard- hadn’t had any mercy.

*

All he could remember of the first week after his oral was the passing of his birthday and the tray of cupcakes he’d brought along for the class. And saving the best and biggest one for his bloody amused teacher who’d smirked and initiated a clumsy (his fellow students made it clumsy. Sherlock was flawless.) rendition of Joyeux Anniversaire in that deep baritone voice of his. Though to be fair his voice wasn’t the only thing at fault here. John distinctly remembers that the tilt of pink lips and the strand of raven curls in front of eyes carved from icy glaciers were just as responsible as the voice for the state of his trousers.

 

He’d wanked to _Happy Bloody Birthday_ for more days than was appropriate.

 

*

Come Monday and his next French class and John realises that his mind is a fucking _shitbitchwhore_ because **_how_** does it not remember how gorgeous Sherlock looks in the plum shirt?! It isn’t like the sexy teacher only wears said purple shirt of sex on rare occasions. Oh no – it makes an appearance every 10 days or so. So why the freaking hell is he still so blown away by the curve Sherlock’s biceps in the too-tight sleeves and the stark difference in the colour of Sherlock’s forearms and the rich colour of the shirt when he rolls the sleeves up on a rare sunny afternoon?

 

 _Focus_ , John growled at his treacherous brain. **_Focus._**

****

**_*_ **

Luckily, he’d had a bit of a break since Monday of last week because Sherlock had reduced his knowing and amused glances when he noticed John staring and squirming. John didn’t know why and he didn’t much care. He was just counting his blessings at this point in time because, John Watson? Yeah, that poor man was losing his fucking mind. He could feel the constant waves of lust chipping away at his reserve of brain cells and turning him into a cock-hungry Neanderthal.

 

Speaking of waves of lust, John was about to be knocked off his feet by a wave bigger than all the others.

 

Because Week 4 brought a slightly sweaty Sherlock running into the classroom. Wearing skinny jeans and a light blue T-shirt.

 

John’s brain short circuited.

 

He loved the cut of Sherlock’s suits. The slim fit of them on his frame. The way the fabric embraced the curve of his arse. How the jacket seemed to flap like a cape when he turned to write on the board.

 

But even the tight suits didn’t hug Sherlock’s legs the way those skinny jeans did. The fucker’s legs went on for miles and were so fucking shapely you could plot them on a graph.

 

Where did the fucking asshole get his damn genes? Was his mum some sort of goddess that fell in love with this handsome mortal man that happened to be the most beautiful man in the universe? _What in the actual fuck?_

 

And what was that fucking shirt? Threadbare and obviously well-loved, it fit him like a second skin. It clung to his pecs and was loose in front of his abdomen (which now John had no doubt was muscled as fuck.). Now, John played rugby. His own body was muscled and strong but the now obvious concealed strength in Sherlock’s tall form was both intimidating and heady.

 

The teacher had explained that his suits were at the tailor’s being altered because he’d put on some muscle mass and the seams had ripped on some of the trousers and jackets.

 

At the time, John was so angry he was convinced that the bastard was doing this on purpose to fuck with him. Looking back though, he recognises that Sherlock was actually quite uncomfortable without his usual armour. He had just observed how affected John was by his new appearance and used it to his advantage. And, well, John can’t blame Sherlock for using the ammo John had handed him to get what he wanted.

 

“Oi, Monsieur! You going on the pull or something after class?” Jones had crowed and got a slap upside the head and a dry,

 

“Behave yourself, Jones, before I text that boyfriend of yours about how often you ogle my arse.”

 

Jones had chortled while the class laughed and John glowered in the back.

The glower only increased in intensity as the class went on and Sherlock bent over several students’ desk, positioning his lovely  _derrière_ just within biting distance of John’s teeth.

 

When Sherlock finally came around to John’s desk to check his work for the day, it was simply to gloat and tease.

The first couple of minutes were genuine corrections and tips to remember how to conjugate various verbs. But after that? Sherlock let his cock guide the conversation. Touching his lips to John’s ear, he’d whispered, “Judging by the tent in your trousers, I’m going to assume you’re in favour of the change in my attire.”

 

John had blushed up to his eyebrows but steeled himself and whispered back, “That’s not a hard-on, that’s just the size of my cock.”

 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” purred Sherlock before moving away.

 

*

Week 5 brought inappropriate puns on Sherlock’s part and unintentional innuendo on John’s.

~

“Monsieur? Could you help me form this sentence?”

 

“Yes, Watson. What are you trying to say?”

 

“I’m trying to say ‘I came’ but I can’t remember how to form it in the passé compose.”

 

“I’m not sure about you coming in the past tense but I can certainly help you come in the future.”

 

~

 

“‘ _Sherlock et moi sommes amis. Nous jouons avec les petites boules.'_ Watson, this sentence is incorrect.”

 

“What, why?”

 

“Because I would never play with small balls. I do have standards, you know.”

 

~

 

“Monsieur, I don’t get this! It’s odd and I can’t wrap my head around it!”

 

“You’re experiencing difficulties with this lesson, Watson?”

 

“Yes, Monsieur.”

 

“Would you even say it’s… _hard_?”

 

~

 

You get the gist. Sherlock is a child and a dick.

 

*

 

Jumping ahead to week 6, where it all finally came to blows.

 

Because if I were to go into more detail about John’s tales of woe with sexual frustration, you might feel so much second hand embarrassment that you’d stop reading and leave without getting the porny ending you’ve been waiting for.

 

On the third day of the sixth week of hell, John walked into French class sullen and annoyed. Uncle Frank had a nasty cold and John had spent the past two nights with no sleep and loads of coffee. So while his feelings of annoyance were not unfounded, they were crucial to the events that took place later that day.

 

Because Sherlock was pulling out all the stops that day. His hair was shiny, the ringlets tight and bouncy. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt under his snowy button down and his dusky nipples were more than visible in the air conditioned room; his bottom extra perky under his wool trousers.

 

He spoke in John’s ear in slow, seductive French when correcting him; he was clumsier than usual and bent over far too many times to pick up all he dropped, far too close to John’s face; he smiled and laughed with the students and licked his lips far more than was appropriate.

 

Truth be told, Sherlock may have been overdoing it a tad bit. But John wasn’t the only one suffering from blue balls. Universities were starting up again in two weeks and Sherlock’s classes would be over and done with in another 4 sessions. The way he saw it, John had lasted far too long – he wanted the young man bent over his desk as fast as humanly possible.

 

~

 

Minutes after the session was over and the class was cleared out, Sherlock had a hot hard body plastered over his back.

 

“I really hope you meant all you said at my oral exam because to be fucking honest, if you didn’t mean it and have been teasing me shamelessly for weeks, I will be very disappointed in you, Monsieur,” whispered John gruffly, head buried in the crease between his teacher’s neck and shoulder.

 

Sherlock shivered as the warm lips grazed the part of his skin bared by his collar and reached back to thread his fingers through John’s short, sandy hair.

 

“Then I must tell you that I _loathe_ disappointing you, Mr. Watson,” murmured Sherlock as the movement of his fingers elicited a soft sigh from his student.

 

“In that case, I shall be extremely disappointed if you aren’t inside me in the next twenty minutes,” replied John, his smirk evident against Sherlock’s skin.

 

The hand in John’s short locks tightened, Sherlock using his grip in them as leverage to twist his body out of reach and to force John’s against the desk.

 

John groaned as the new position forced their hips together and blindly sought out Sherlock’s face to pull him closer _closer_ **_closer_ ** till finally, their lips met.

 

You know how when you’ve been walking in a carpet in socks and build up a static charge then finally grab something metal, you feel a sharp zap at the point of contact? The first meeting of their lips created a similar feeling. Aside from the slick and eager sounds of lips sliding and tongues seeking, there was a constant rumbling sound coming from Sherlock and a low moan from John. Finally, John ripped his lips away from Sherlock and panting, said “Wait, wait, God, _Sherlock,_ wait! L-lock the door first.”

 

Sherlock hummed against the patch of skin he was mouthing but conceded the point and with a final pinch of John’s arse, stumbled off to lock the classroom door. Instead of heading straight back to John, he rounded his desk and pulled open one of his drawers.

 

“Sherlock, I hardly think this is the time to be grading our essays,” John said, amused.

 

Sherlock did not answer. Instead, he triumphantly straightened up with a bottle of lubricant and a condom in his hand.

 

“Good idea, that,” laughed John as Sherlock came back around and kissed his smiling mouth.

 

“Yes, yes, I am exquisitely clever, I am aware. Now lose your clothes. I’ve been dreaming about your arse for far too long,” mumbled Sherlock impatiently as he yanked at his own buttons.

 

“Christ, yeah. Do me a favour though and turn around while you slide those trousers off,” John pleaded even as he stripped off his jeans and T-shirt.

 

Sherlock’s lips pulled up at a corner as he finished unbuttoning the last button on his shirt and tossed it off. He turned around so he was facing away from John and kicked off his shoes and socks. Glancing over one muscled shoulder at John, Sherlock started slowly sliding his trousers and pants off the gorgeous swell of his bottom.

 

John was in danger of drooling as he fell to his knees in front of that smooth, pale flesh and grabbed handfuls of it before burrowing his face between the flawless cheeks in search of a pale pink pucker.

 

“Please, please tell me you’re clean, I need to feel you around my tongue, God, Sherlock, _please_ ,” mumbled John incoherently, his lips centimetres away from making contact with his goal.

 

“Yes, John, I am – _ah!_ ”

 

No sooner had he spoken those words, had John’s tongue begun its probing and tasting. Sherlock braced himself against one of the desks in the front row and tried to breathe through the electric pleasure rocketing through his body. John’s tongue was relentless even as he grabbed the lube and reached behind himself to begin working his hole open. Warm and wet swipes mixed in with deep probing thrusts had Sherlock’s knees quivering and his cock leaking heavily.

 

“Stop, _merde_ , John, **stop,** ” he gasped throatily.

 

John leaned back on his heels and looked up into Sherlock’s bright blue eyes (or what was left of said blue irises) as he hauled him up to his feet and leaned him against the desk once more.

 

Sherlock grabbed the lube and took over the task of working John open, his fingers gorgeous and filling, their strokes accurate and precise when brushing over John’s prostate.

 

“ _Ah, ah, ah!_ Sh-sherlock please, fuck me, I’m ready, I’ve been ready for 6 weeks, fucking fuck me already,” John managed to say as Sherlock sucked another red mark into his neck.

 

“Yes, yes, I’ve got you, John, anything you want, love, I’ve got you,” rambled the dark-haired man, his hand rolling the condom onto his cock expertly as he shifted John into a plausible position.

 

John’s pink mouth fell open as his body accepted Sherlock’s cock and his endless blue eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling as the intense pleasure rolled over him.

 

When he was all the way in, Sherlock paused and took a deep breath. Stroking John’s hair, he asked “Are you alright? Come back to me, John.”

 

“I’d be better, if you would pound into me already, you daft pillock,” snarled John when he lowered his eyes to answer Sherlock.

 

Sherlock groaned and pulled John into a bruising kiss as he began to rotate his hips. As his thrusts gained strength, they were forced to break the kiss in favour of breathing into each other’s mouths, swallowing each other’s hushed moans.

 

When John finally came from a combination of Sherlock’s unnervingly accurate thrusts to his prostate and his own hand on his cock, he felt as if his body had been blown to bits. He was thoroughly disconnected from his physical body, floating on a majestic cloud of pleasure. By the time he came to, Sherlock’s teeth were latched onto his chest as he grunted and came hard into the condom.

 

John gently stroked his hair away from his face and smiled softly at him when the older man lifted his face away from John’s sweaty chest.

 

“You know, your receptionist pitied me when I first signed up here. She obviously has no idea how good you are,” he remarked slyly.

 

“At teaching or at fucking you?” replied Sherlock with an answering smirk on his face.

 

“Both,” huffed John as he leaned back on the desk and smiled at the ceiling. “Definitely both.”


End file.
